It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its body. His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! --Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.” And thus, Frankenstein’s monster was born. Everyone seems to know the name Frankenstein, whether it is from reading a book, watching a movie, or seeing a theatrical adaptation. Doctor Victor Frankenstein is the central character in the novel of the same name, sharing billing with the eponymous Frankenstein’s Monster, a creature created from different parts of the recently deceased, patched together and brought back to life by the good, yet experimental, Doctor. Frankenstein has become a true icon of horror that will last forever, very much in the same vein, if you will pardon the pun, as that other great, classic blood-sucking horror, Dracula, from the inspired pen of Bram Stoker. But how many people know that author’s name, or for that matter the name of Mary Shelley, Frankenstein’s creator? And, if by some remote chance they do, how many would be able to tell you the amazing story of her life, filled with death, tragedy, love, heartache and much, much more besides. Mary Shelley’s life was as exciting and dramatic as the monster she bestowed upon the world of literature, proving that even in this case, fact truly can be, stranger than fiction.